


Teacher By Example

by Lomonaaeren



Series: Eighth Year Professors [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Exhibitionism, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 04:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11478330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: Draco knows this isn’t the end of his competition with Harry Potter. But he is confident that Potter can’t up the ante much more without giving in. It takes a Transfiguration lesson to teach him how very wrong he is.





	Teacher By Example

**Author's Note:**

> Content Notes: Voyeurism, exhibitionism, masturbation, extremely naughty use of invisibility.

It would not end there.  
  
This time, Draco was not alone in the knowledge. He could watch the way Potter stared at him in corridors, silent as a coiled predator, and see it in his eyes, too. And so Draco could also away and walk coolly beside his friends back to the dungeons, because there was no need to challenge Potter’s perceptions, no need to prove him wrong. He could wait for the moment when the dam broke and Potter decided that he was tired of living without the taste of Draco’s cock.  
  
The dam remained in place for longer than Draco had expected. But, of course, Potter was stubborn, and he would carry a small, hard stone of resentment for the fact that Draco had made him hump the table in Potions class. That added to Draco’s patience when he remembered it, and he waited in silence, in stillness, never looking Potter’s way for longer than necessary to think of an insult or connect with the knowledge glimmering in his face.  
  
And then Potter moved, and proved that, while he understood the same things as Draco, he still did not grasp them in the same way.  
  
*  
  
“Fancy seeing you here, Malfoy.”  
  
Draco felt the hairs lift on his arms and his breathing quicken in spite of himself when he saw Potter leaning against the door outside the Transfiguration classroom. Pansy stepped up to his side, looking between him and Potter with a jerky motion that grew puzzled a moment later. She laid a hand on Draco’s arm and leaned in until her mouth was right next to his ear—a rather disappointing reality when Draco was fantasizing about Potter’s being there instead.  
  
“Draco, are you all right? Did he cast that Lung-Stopping Charm on you?”  
  
Draco shook his head, hard enough that some of his hair hit her in the face. Pansy moved back with an offended expression, and Draco sighed and gave her a wavering smile. “It’s not that, Pansy,” he whispered. “But there’s something Potter and I have to settle. A wager. And we can’t discuss it in front of you.”  
  
Pansy paused, her eyes moving between them again. Then she said, “Is this about your Quidditch victory? Potter still a sore loser?”  
  
She didn’t bother keeping her voice down, but Potter didn’t flush or stutter. He kept on watching, and Draco’s cock stirred, his stomach tightening until he wanted to thrust. But he wasn’t close enough to brush against Potter’s groin or thigh if he did, so he maintained his stillness and his smile at Pansy.  
  
“It’s about that,” Draco said, and caught Potter’s gaze, because while he could smile at his best friend and talk to her, he couldn’t look at her right now. “Or, at least, it started there. Didn’t it, Potter?”  
  
The game where his hand on Potter’s thigh had made him lose the Snitch. The game that had begun this other game, this competition that Draco had already won, although Potter didn’t have the grace to acknowledge that yet. Then again, when had Potter ever had any grace about anything?  
  
Potter inclined his head, and said nothing. The stare that made their gazes feel connected as if on wires didn’t end, though, and Draco’s throat ached.  _Finally,_ he thought,  _the idiot is going to make a move._  
  
Pansy looked back and forth between them, and either saw enough to realize what was happening or saw enough to realize that she didn’t want to be involved, Draco wasn’t sure which. She rolled her eyes, said, “I hope that you don’t go anywhere alone with him, that’s all,” and stepped into the classroom.  
  
There was no one else in the corridor. Draco and Pansy had come early this morning because they’d nearly been late two days ago and McGonagall had given them the mild, freezing look she’d perfected since the war that was worse than her former scowls. Potter had come early to catch him. It was chill, with autumn well-advanced and the first snows starting to fall, but the heat Potter radiated was more than enough to counteract that. Draco’s hand went to his scarf in spite of himself, ready to unwind it.  
  
“Yes, I know you could,” Potter said, and then leaned near him. Enough air separated their lips that Draco would look stupid and awkward lunging in for a kiss, but he seriously considered it. “But you’re not going to. Not yet. I’ve already seen you mostly naked once, haven’t I? And heard you tell me about it. But I haven’t had a chance to return the favor.”  
  
Draco had to shut his eyes. For this, he would miss Transfiguration. “I know a classroom,” he whispered, thinking of Potter’s mouth, Potter’s hands, Potter’s groin, Potter’s arse. “I know spells that would ensure we’re undisturbed for hours.”  
  
A brush of air against his cheek and nose said that Potter had come to stand near him. Draco turned his head, and their mouths would have met if Potter hadn’t tipped his head back and whispered, “Oh, but I intend to ensure one of us is  _very_ disturbed.”  
  
Draco’s eyes snapped open when he heard the stir and ripple of cloth and wood that meant Potter was drawing his wand. Potter whispered a quiet incantation near him. Draco shook his head and blinked. His sight had seemed to sharpen, but when he glanced around, the corridor looked the same as ever, the shadows and light of the torches all in the same places.  
  
“What have you done?” Draco said. He heard his voice come out slow as sunlight in summer, and shivered. Potter could have cast a spell that would have damaged him, and he would have reacted much the same way, he thought. He was not—the same when Potter was around. Pansy had probably been right to look at him the way she did and then stomp off.  
  
“You’ll see soon,  _Draco_.”  
  
Potter used the word like a crossbow bolt, and Draco was still feeling the heat build up under his shirt when Potter stepped away from him and into the Transfiguration classroom. Another blurry shadow followed him. Draco frowned and ducked after him, intent on asking what the spell had done.  
  
On the other hand, he hadn’t told Potter about the last spell he’d cast on him, had he? He’d let him find out for himself.  
  
Draco debated whether he should let that happen now—as the mere thought caused his erection to stiffen a bit more—or demand that Potter cease this silly game and give Draco his reward now. Potter had acknowledged with this spell that they weren’t done with each other. Surely that was enough? Surely he could agree to take this to a desk, or a table, or a bench, or the floor, or whatever they could find, instead of in the middle of the classroom?  
  
Pansy had settled near their usual seats, scribbling notes and ignoring Potter as if she had decided to pretend he didn’t exist. Draco wondered for a moment, as he sat beside her, whether he would be happier if he did the same thing.  
  
Then he shook his head. Happier, perhaps, but more jealous. He wanted Potter, he had decided to have Potter, and he was going to have him. Give him up, and he would follow him with his eyes for an interminable amount of time and snarl at the mention of whoever Potter did end up dating or fucking.  
  
No. Malfoys did not pine after the unattainable. They made it attainable, through whatever methods it took.  
  
Potter paused and glanced up and down the rows of tables as though looking for something. Then he smiled and pulled a chair away from the rest of them, setting it up in a corner which McGonagall sometimes paced through when giving them one of her tirades about undone homework but which wasn’t used for anything else. Then he sat down, stretched his legs in front of him, and began calmly to unbutton his shirt.  
  
Draco felt his hand nearly tear the strap off his satchel. Yes, he wanted to see Potter naked, but that didn’t mean anyone  _else_ got to. Malfoys didn’t pine and they didn’t let people look at their property.  
  
But at the same time, Pansy hadn’t glanced up yet, and no one else was in here, and he might finally get to see what he had been wanting to see now for some time.  
  
So he stared, when he should have objected, and Potter looked him in the eye and smiled, an expression both quieter and more feral than the one he’d used on Draco in the corridor.  
  
His shirt unfolded under his hands, halfway down to his chest before Potter shrugged and it fell away from his shoulders. There was a brilliance to the skin that reassured Draco a bit. At least he wasn’t the only one likely to squirm in his seat from this.  
  
But Potter was all leanness and compactness, far more feline than Draco had been picturing him as, with those eyes and that litheness. It was no wonder he was so good on a broom. He didn’t have as much hair as Draco had been expecting, either, but it was good to be superior in something for once.  
  
For  _once_? Draco snorted. He had to stop thinking like that. He was the one who had recognized that the game would continue when Potter had wanted to end it with one act of vengeance on Draco, and he was the one who had seen that it would go deeper than vengeance, too.  
  
Then Potter stood up and removed the shirt fully, and Draco heard a distinct rip from the satchel strap.  
  
“Darling?” Pansy glanced at him. “Is something the matter?”  
  
Draco couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed yet. He took the moment to try and sear the sight of Potter half-naked and bending over to put his shirt on the back of the chair into his memory, before he had to snap at the idiot to put it back on.  
  
It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen bare chests before. Of course he had. He would bet that he’d seen a lot more than Potter, whose reactions practically screamed  _virgin._ That wasn’t the point. But Potter had that leanness that Draco had seen before, and a strange, ragged, round scar high on one side, and a small ripple that traveled up and down as he breathed.  
  
And if he was a virgin, this made it the first time he had ever stripped with anyone.  
  
If he had only waited until they were alone together in a room, then Draco could have enjoyed it more. But that was the only thing that would have made enjoying it more possible.  
  
“What?” Pansy said, and glanced over at Potter.  
  
Straight past and through him. She didn’t seem to see him.  
  
The understanding of what Potter had done with his damn spell hit Draco like lightning. Potter was under a Disillusionment Charm or maybe that bloody Invisibility Cloak, and Draco’s eyes were enchanted to see through it. No one else could.  
  
Potter sat back down and crossed his legs, smiling at him. Then he arched back, stretching his arms above his head, making his skin slide over his ribs and his muscles ripple. Draco closed his eyes and put his satchel down.  
  
“Draco? Are you all right?” Pansy’s hand was on his shoulder. “Did the fight with Potter unnerve you that much?”  
  
“No, I’m fine,” Draco said, and opened his eyes, because he couldn’t not. Potter had lowered his arms to his sides again, but that wasn’t much help, not given the way he was looking at Draco, with his eyes wide open and so dark that Draco bit his lip in response. He leaned his forehead into his palm and managed to tear his gaze away like that, but Potter’s presence to the side was as unforgettable as a fire.  
  
“I think you have a fever.” Pansy’s hand patted gently at his cheek, and then at his forehead. “Do you need to go see Madam Pomfrey? McGonagall wouldn’t mind if you miss the class.”  
  
The undercurrent of tension in her voice when she said that—the Headmistress didn’t mind if Slytherins missed her NEWT class because she thought most of them shouldn’t have returned in the first place—made Draco wince.  _I need to endure this for Pansy’s sake._ He sat up and shook his head. “No. I didn’t sleep well last night.”  _Because I was dreaming of making Potter come._  
  
Pansy raised her eyebrow at him, but they had learned not to question each other too much last year, when they were often the only ones who would believe each other. In the end, she nodded doubtfully at him and went back to arranging her notes in front of her.  
  
Draco looked again. Potter had his hands on one trainer, but he had waited until Draco turned to him. He flashed Draco a smile that was astonishing in its sweetness and tugged the shoe off his foot.  
  
Draco jerked. The sight of Potter’s foot in its tattered blue-grey sock  _did_ something to him. He thought no sound passed his lips, but Potter’s smile changed as if it had. Potter tugged off the other trainer a moment later, and sat there, moving his toes back and forth in the socks, before he stood and reached for his belt.  
  
Draco’s breath got shallow. He had never seen this much of Potter before, except in his imagination—  
  
“Good morning, class.”  
  
 _McGonagall._ Draco turned back to the front of the classroom and mumbled in response to her greeting, along with Pansy and Granger and the few other students who had made it all the way to NEWT-level Transfiguration. McGonagall paused and studied them for a moment as though she didn’t know what had come over them, then shook her head and swept up to wave her wand at the board. “Please open your books to page three hundred. You will be practicing the incantation to turn ice into wood…”  
  
Draco waited until he was sure that McGonagall had her back turned, and then sneaked another glance at Potter. He was holding his belt in his hands, caressing it like it was one of the snakes he could speak to.  
  
Draco took a chance and mouthed,  _Will you speak Parseltongue to me?_  
  
Potter’s dark smile promised everything and nothing. He undid his trousers, and leaned back to pull them off. Draco thought he would leave the pants in place, but no, he pulled them all off at once, everything, in a single swoop, trousers and pants and socks and  _everything_ , to bare the skin beneath.  
  
Draco clamped his knees around his erection, and this time he knew that he couldn’t completely stifle the moan. Pansy looked at him again, but she was busy with the piece of ice in front of her, and couldn’t spare him much attention.  
  
“Mr. Malfoy, is something wrong?”  
  
Draco gulped and glanced up at McGonagall. She wasn’t blinded by her own magnificent girth, the way that Slughorn seemed to be. She would know what his flushed and sweating face and parted lips meant.  
  
Or, she would, if Draco was stupid to do something else that let the secret slip.  
  
 _Damn Potter anyway,_ Draco thought. He didn’t think this was justified revenge for making Potter climax in the middle of Potions class at all. Draco had deliberately chosen a class where he knew the professor wouldn’t pay much attention, but Potter had chosen the one that had the professor who was always paying attention.  
  
Of course, would it be much fun if he hadn’t? They had to up the game, raise the stakes.  
  
“Mr. Malfoy.” McGonagall’s voice had a distinctly Scottish cadence now. “I asked you a question.”  
  
Draco shook his head. “I didn’t sleep well last night, Professor,” he said. “And I’m a little hot now. I don’t have a fever, though,” he added, before she could suggest going to the hospital wing. “I promise.”  
  
McGonagall considered him for a moment with her head on the side, and then nodded. She could apparently believe that someone wouldn’t want to miss her NEWT class no matter what ill health they were suffering. “See to it that you don’t,” she said, and turned away.  
  
Draco’s eyes might have been lodestones, and Potter the North Pole. And when he looked back, it was to find Potter patiently waiting for him, legs spread as though he didn’t want to obstruct Draco’s view.  
  
It was…  
  
Draco had no words for the scar that twined around Potter’s right knee, or the way that his legs looked as if he had run every day for hours during the summer, or the way he sat propped on one hip, riding the stool as if it were a broom. Then Potter reached down and traced one finger over the head of the flushed cock standing up between his legs, and Draco lost all the words, all of them, at once.  
  
Potter watched him, smiled, and reached up to stick his finger in his mouth. His eyelids fluttered shut, and Draco’s hips bucked.  
  
“Keep still, if you can,” Pansy told him out of the side of her mouth. She didn’t look up, and that almost made Draco resolve to turn back to his own ice like a good little Slytherin.  
  
But…  
  
Potter leaned back on the stool, as at much ease as if he was leaning on the back of a chair, and took his cock in his right hand. With his left, he touched the head and spent a moment spreading the wetness that glistened there along the length. Draco closed his eyes and opened them again, but no, it was still there, one of the sights he had most wanted to see, Potter touching himself.  
  
And it was in the middle of Transfiguration class, with McGonagall’s back turned for the moment as she commented on Boot’s work, but she would turn back around again in a moment, surely, and it  _wasn’t fair._  
  
Draco glanced down at his book and muttered the incantation once. Nothing happened. Of course not, since he’d forgotten to make the wrist movement. He sighed and did so, glared at the unchanging ice cube, and then turned and looked up at Potter.  
  
Who was getting a  _lot_ of movement out of his wrist.  
  
Potter’s head had fallen back, and his skin was all one glorious blaze of red from his cock to his throat. A small trail of sweat crept out from under his hair. His mouth fell open in the same moment, as though to gulp in air. He sighed, and both his hands held onto his cock the way he might hold onto his broom.  
  
The way Draco wanted to hold onto it. Roughly, not tenderly. Nothing about what he wanted to do to Potter was  _tender_.  
  
His own erection was aching. He could reach down and touch it, he thought, and that would be enough. He checked McGonagall, but apparently Boot had made some really complicated mistake and she still had her back turned. He slid his hand under the table.  
  
Pansy’s nudge nearly knocked him over. Draco glared at her, and she shook her head and gave him a worse glare back before he could open his mouth. “I’m open to you doing a lot of things,” she said. “But not wanking next to me.”  
  
Draco was sure he had his own body-length flush at the moment. He hadn’t—hearing Pansy speak the word made it more  _real_.  
  
Potter leaned back when Draco looked at him, and smiled at him, one direct, slumberous look. Then his lips parted in a subtle whimper as he fisted himself, one hand sliding up to the head of his shaft again while the other slid back and down and behind, aiming for his entrance. Draco’s muscles seized up, and he didn’t think he could breathe in the next few seconds if his life depended on it.  
  
Potter  _had_ to shift. Just a little. Just enough that Draco could see what he was doing.  
  
And then he twisted a little to the right, and  _yes_. His finger had slid into his hole, and he was slowly working it back and forth, his mouth falling open and his breath escaping his lungs in a long hiss of delight as if he had never done this before.  
  
It was the greatest moment of Draco’s life.  
  
“ _Mr._ Malfoy!”  
  
And the next one was the worst, Draco thought, as he whipped around and stared at McGonagall.  
  
She leaned over him, peering into the eyes as though all the details of his dilated pupils were hers to read by right. If she wasn’t spitting anger at him, Draco thought, it was only by a miracle that Pansy would probably say he didn’t deserve. She had her wand in hand, and she rapped it once against his melting ice and once against his knuckles. Draco flinched, but it didn’t diminish the throbbing in his pants, or the desire to look back at Potter. He didn’t do it only because he knew McGonagall would immediately decide there was something in that direction and start casting spells to reveal it.  
  
And Draco couldn’t,  _couldn’t,_ have Potter revealed to the greedy gaze of other eyes. No. Potter was his and his alone.  
  
“You will do me the favor of paying attention from now on,” McGonagall said, in the sort of gritted-teeth tone that meant she was a moment away from assigning detention. “When the Ministry graciously agreed to allow you to repeat your last year, they did not intend you to squander it in daydreaming…”  
  
Potter exhaled hard. It was the most sound he probably dared to make, especially with McGonagall a few feet away from him, but if there was a better way of drawing Draco’s attention, Draco couldn’t imagine what it was.  
  
He looked, and his brain locked up, thoughts jammed and frozen, like a sea full of icebergs. He could have used that sea to dump over himself at the moment.  
  
 _This_ was the best moment of his life.  
  
Potter had one finger sunk into his hole, to the knuckle. His body strained backwards and forwards, fucking his finger behind him, fucking his fist in front. His chest heaved with breaths that made Draco think he could set a fire with them, and his tongue protruded past kiss-dark lips. He was stroking himself with careful little motions, as though worried he would make something explode if he continued.  
  
And then his back arched, and jerked, once.  
  
He came beautifully, the way he did everything beautifully, his body twitching, his teeth plunged as firmly into his lips as his finger was plunged into his body. He jerked and cried, tears squeezing out past his tightly-shut eyelids. His come soaked his hand, and the stool, and the floor in front of him, and his foot tucked underneath the stool; he made no attempt to stop it. His eyes flew open near the end, his lips parting as though he was surprised he still had air to breathe.  
  
His eyes found Draco.  
  
Who came.  
  
There was no choice in it, no chance, no chance to change it. His body pulled straight with the effort, and still he couldn’t stop it. His body was a glorious mess, the lines of his muscles standing out as he spent himself, the thunder of his climax in his ears so loud that he didn’t recognize the voices at first.  
  
McGonagall’s was one of them. Pansy’s was another, trying shrilly to explain that he had a fever, she’d said so before, she’d tried to persuade him to go to the infirmary and he’d refused because he was so stubborn, but surely the professor could see—  
  
And Draco, with the buzz of his release still singing through him, didn’t care. He opened his eyes and looked for Potter.  
  
Potter gathered up his clothes in one arm and bowed to Draco. He hadn’t cleaned himself up yet, his cock still limp and glistening, though he had spelled the spunk off the floor. He gave Draco a single lazy smile and turned his back, walking out of the classroom under what surely had to be an expertly-cast Disillusionment Charm, and leaving Draco dazed with what he had done.  
  
And with the possibilities for revenge, as soon as he thought of them.  
  
“ _Mr. Malfoy._ ”  
  
 _And as soon,_ Draco thought, looking up at McGonagall,  _as I get out of detention._  
  
 **The End.**


End file.
